Dicker
by I'm Nova
Summary: I received this prompt on Tumblr from my dear missmuffin221: "Tell me a secret," Jim/Sherlock. I failed at Sheriarty, but at least they are the characters involved. Teenlock. Jim has a trade in mind... Added another chapter, might become a three-part on request. UPPED RATING because of making love. Yuppie!
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I do not own anything. A.N. I was prompted on Tumblr by the delightful missmuffin221 with 'Tell me a secret' and Jim/Sherlock. This was supposed to be a drabble, but it ran away with me. And I know I cheated (sorry, honeybun), because this is not Sheriarty…but if I know the prompter well enough I hope she, at least, will forgive me…and I hope you all will enjoy it._

Dicker

"Tell me a se-cret, Holmes," Jim singsonged, cornering the lanky, curly-haired teenager while he was sneaking a cigarette in the school's garden.

"I am not insane, Jim," Sherlock replied, blowing smoke right in the other's face. "Why would I?"

If the taller one hoped to make the other choke, it failed entirely. Moriarty inhaled with evident, even overblown pleasure. "Because I am offering you a trade – I have a secret you _really_ want to know, trust me, and a barter is only fair, isn't it? Of course, we could arrange alternate methods of payment. I would accept a kiss. Lasting at least forty-five seconds. With tongue. But somehow, I doubt you'd go for it." He chuckled mockingly.

Well, Jim was right about one thing. He was a complete virgin, even unkissed – the fact that anytime he hoped his mouth people wanted to punch him made his considerable charm rather useless – and there was no way in hell that he'd surrender his first to Jim bloody Moriarty in a barter. "You really think that you have a secret which I can't deduce on my own, _and_ that I would be interested in hearing?" Sherlock hissed haughtily.

Moriarty chortled again, half amused and half condescending…and all irksome. "I thought you'd say that. Fine, I'll give you an incentive. It's about John."

The taller teen glared down his nose at him. "Now I know you're stringing me along. There is no way that John decided to confide you a secret. Especially one he would keep from me."

Jim raised his hands in a placating gesture. "True, true…but you see, this particular secret wasn't confided. It was…stumbled upon. And not even by me, I admit your little friend is likely to be on guard when he thinks I might be around. But he does play rugby with Sebby," he explained.

"Sebby?" Sherlock echoed, blinking. He ignored people he didn't care about a little too well, right.

"Moran. One of the props. Definitely eye candy," Moriarty pointed out, unable to keep the smile off his face.

"Oh yes…I think John mentioned him once or twice," the curly haired teen acknowledged, a wary look in his eyes. It might still be a ploy, a scam…but it made sense. The other boy hadn't even said that Moran had been told the secret, just that he'd accidentally discovered it. It could have happened.

"So? Do you want to know?" Jim asked, with a smile full of teeth. He took a step back, almost as if he wasn't interested and was about to leave if his favourite rival dillydallied any longer.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed. It would be the ruin of him someday, but he wanted to know absolutely everything about John Watson…in excruciatingly intimate detail.

The shorter teen raised an eyebrow, clearly impatient.

The problem was, while the younger Holmes knew plenty of secrets about anyone he crossed paths with – deducing them an automatic reflex, and dismissing them as petty and ridiculous just as automatic – he didn't really have many secrets of his own. It might be caused by living with Mycroft, from whom it was sadly impossible to hide anything at all, but Sherlock had developed a devil may care attitude. He'd do what he pleased, when he pleased, and if people saw, they could look the other way, or yell at him for being a freak. Either way, he wasn't interested in their reactions.

Well, that wasn't entirely true…there wasn't something he'd never vocalized, and…well, not exactly hidden as tried desperately to downplay…so he supposed it counted as a secret. And honestly, being finally able to form the words, even if in front of an already bored-looking Jim, might be a relief. God knew (or he would if he existed) that this sentence clung to the back of his throat all the damn time, choking him at the most inconvenient moments, forcing him to swallow it back again and again…but never actually going away. Maybe he could manage to push them further down after airing them once. Sherlock breathed, so soft that it was almost inaudible, "I am in love with John Watson."

Any relief the wannabe chemist thought he'd feel vanished seeing Jim shake his head, clearly disappointed. "Oh, pet, I asked for a _secret_. Anyone with the use of half of a single one of his senses can see that. Well, not John, but he's an idiot. Never understood what you see in him, honestly. Your love can be seen, heard, smelled, and bloody _tasted_. You'll have to do better than that if you want to know," his tormenter declared, clicking his tongue.

"I think you don't know anything, and are just playing with me," Sherlock accused, flushing a lovely bright red.

"As much as I do love playing with you, doll, I am serious now…and really, I have your best interests in mind. Fine, I'll give you another encouragement. Want to know how Sebby overheard this secret? I'd detained him just after practice because…well, I don't really need to discuss my tastes, even if I suspect you might share them. Anyway, when I finally allowed him to go shower, the others had long since left the room. Not John, though, who'd apparently been detained too…or maybe he had purposefully waited for a bit of privacy…" Moriarty claimed, leering. He didn't think it was possible, but the other teen flush actually deepened.

It could all be an elaborate lie. Of course it could. And really, even if it wasn't, knowing that John sang off tune under the shower or whatever else Moran had happened to overhear wasn't worth putting himself under Jim's thumb. True, the teen made it sound like a…dirty secret, but Jim made everything sound sexual, even the lunch menu probably.

Sherlock was on the brink of walking away. He should have, really. He could just ask John what happened, and even if his friend refused to reveal it (which he very rarely did), his reaction would be telling enough to allow Sherlock to deduce it. The blond boy was a terrible liar.

But if he asked, he would be forced to explain how he knew that anything odd had happened at all. John would know that Moran knew, Jim knew, and possibly the whole school would know if Jim was ever bored enough. He'd be embarrassed (never mind how minor the thing could be, John always cared way too much for people's opinion), then agitated, then…this had to be avoided at all costs. John must not be upset. Ever.

Suddenly, Sherlock knew what he needed to do. "If I tell you another secret of mine…Something not even Mycroft knows…" he bartered, "will you tell me and _only_ me? I mean it, Jim. I want the exclusive on this piece of news, and if you or Moran spread it further, I _will_ find a way to make you regret it. I have talent in chemistry, you know." At least, he was pretty sure his brother didn't know. Otherwise, the annoying git would have lectured him long ago.

Jim's eyes shone with greed, and he grinned. "Of course I won't spread it…because _you_ 'll spread it for me, very soon," he declared smugly.

"I would _never_ betray John's confidence," the taller teen growled, earnest.

"Of course, of course…now, this secret?" Moriarty demanded, leaning forward again.

"I-keep-a-collection-of-samples-from-John-and-he-doesn't-know," the curly haired boy whispered, all in a breath.

"Samples, uh?" Jim echoed, rolling the word in his mouth and clearly liking its taste. "Biological ones?"

Sherlock nodded silently, but then added, just as softly, "Not only…things he's touched, too. Little things, not anything he'd miss…empty pens, and the like."

Moriarty laughed, too loud and too smug. "My dear little apprentice stalker… Some day we'll make a proper crook of you, Sherly," he remarked, more hushed but still not murmuring. "Until then, you've definitely earned your secret. Seb overheard our known ladykiller John pleasuring himself in the shower… Naughty boy, really… and he said he called _your_ name."

If Jim had cared at all, he'd worry about having caused the only other not entirely dull boy in school a heart attack, given his reaction – or lack of one – for the following seven minutes. The fact that he hadn't walked away from him, bored, spoke only of his curiosity, honest. He'd never murdered anyone without meaning to yet.

When Sherlock's brain was finally back online, he lunged at him screaming, "Liar!" It was a lie, it had to be,

"I'm not. I'm not trying to trick you into confessing and being broken hearted when he'll refuse you. You'd start sulking, and that is mind-numbing. Besides, if anyone has to break your heart, it's gotta be me deary, and not by proxy," Moriarty declared, deftly sidestepping the angry boy and slipping behind him. He patted the other's back encouragingly. "Go get him, kitten. Watching you pine is tiresome." He walked away from a rigid, confused, frustrated Sherlock. "I'll expect both your thanks!" Jim called in a Parthian shot.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I am still not owning anything. Duh._

What to do? Jim could still be lying. Still aiming to destroy him. Causing John to hate him would be the easier way to do that. But, if he wasn't lying… Sherlock needed to figure out that. But his deductive powers were useless when his feelings were involved. He could be projecting.

He couldn't ask Mycroft, though. His brother would despise him for developing an…attachment, in the first place. The elder Holmes brother was enough of a manipulative bastard that he could lie to him, if he didn't appreciate his choice of lover.

The most sensible thing would be to wait and develop a plan. But if Jim was right, they might have lost…who knows how long, really. No, this had to be solved today. There was no other choice. He would have to make first move. Maybe he could try to discuss the matter in increments, so that he could backtrack as soon as John reacted badly.

He texted quickly, "Come to my house today at five PM. SH" It wasn't an unusual invitation, and John would find nothing wrong with it. His friend had no club activity today, and honestly, he would likely have popped in anyway – but giving him instructions allowed him to control the parameters of the situation. At least he would have he field advantage, as John would say. In such a high-risk situation, he needed all the pros he could ensure.

Part of the planning – Sherlock could be as shrewd as Jim and Mycroft combined, if he felt like it – was to time a shower so that John, arriving, would find him still wet, in only a clinging silk bathrobe. The teen would blame it on his elder brother hogging the bathroom, of course. It was an actual fact that his brother did some of his best thinking during long baths (an habit John had started to copy, in the hope of acquiring even a slight percentage of the Holmes genius).

It wasn't even anything unusual – the one time John had convinced his friend to join him on a camping trip (never again), they'd seen each other in the 'just bathed' situation often. How Sherlock had not passed out that week from sudden blood flow redirection or had his feelings found out, he still had no idea. True, then there'd been no silk involved. That was supposed to be sexy, right? _If_ John had feelings for him, he should appreciate the sight. 

John did react – by gaping, greeting dying in his throat, and then immediately checking his watch. Wondering if he'd come too soon, no doubt. After an instant his eyes stayed firmly locked to his friend's, though. This was not encouraging.

Muttering his planned excuse, Sherlock led him to his bedroom. He'd debated long and hard if it was really a good idea – that choice would give him no place to retire to should things go awry. But it was his house, and his room, and John was still John – above anything else, a good man. There was a reason the curly haired teen had elected him to moral compass. If Jim had lied – if John reacted negatively, maybe even angrily – he would storm away, rather than attacking him. And if Sherlock, upset, asked him to leave, John would. Of course, if Jim had _not_ lied, the venue would hopefully prove ideal. He blushed at the mere thought. If he was lucky, his best friend wouldn't notice. John could be thankfully so very oblivious.

John seemed surprised when he close the door behind them, and gulped. Scared? This was going downhill so fast, and they had barely exchanged more than a greeting. True, it was unusual for Sherlock to close any door – no matter what sort of disgusting experiment he was involved in. So the sudden need for secrecy might reasonably worry his friend.

"I don't want Mycroft to overhear. Or anyone else, really," the taller boy explained, sitting on the bed, legs bent and feet on the mattress, in an instinctive closed off, defensive posture. He was going to do this. He was going to unveil all his secrets. It didn't mean that he wasn't terrified.

John sat on the bed next to him, a hand patting his friend's shoulder. "I am glad that you're going to tell me, then. I'll always be here for you, whatever it is. We can work something out together. You know, right?"

Sherlock nodded once. He had to speak now. He had to. "Love," he blurted out.

"Yes?" his friend breathed, and oh – this sounded so so wonderful. If it just had happened after this awkward conversation, he would be over the moon from this simple exchange.

"You fall in love every week," he remarked, trying his best not to pout or sound embittered. John usually shared his feelings for this or that girl, and it was painful. Why was he reminding his friend of that, while trying to have this conversation? He hadn't meant to. Sherlock had planned this all so carefully, but John's mere presence had deleted all his careful strategies. Mycroft was right. He was an idiot.

The blond teen laughed weekly. "Well, yeah… fall in love easily, fall out of love as easily. That's my motto. It saves a lot of heartache," he said, shrugging. His eyebrows revealed he was lying. What was he lying about? This was consistent with all the evidence his behaviour offered. What was Sherlock missing?

"One would think that not falling in love in the first place would be the way to avoid heartache in the first place," the lankier teen muttered.

"Ah, but that's _your_ motto," John quipped. His hand was still on Sherlock's shoulder, a spot of warmth that took entirely too much of his brainpower.

"Not anymore. I don't think. I'm not even sure I ever honestly stood by it. I'm…confused, John," he admitted, eyes on his knees. Had he ever not loved John? It seemed like seeing him and falling for him was one and the same. "And it's bad."

"If you have you fallen in love with someone, that's not bad, Sherlock! Unless…" his friend trailed off. He aborted an attempt at hug, and ended taking his hand away instead. Things were worse than he feared. John was withdrawing comfort.

"Unless what? Unless it's a boy? Well, it is!" the curly haired finished for him, raising his head and looking ready to challenge the world. It might be the worst idea he'd ever had, but he was done being afraid of his feelings. They were on the brink of resolution, anyway.

"What? Christ, no! That's fine. It's really, really fine, Sherlock. Harriet is gay too, remember?" the shorter boy exclaimed, jumping to his feet and swivelling to face the other. He was shocked. Who was the bastard who'd put that garbage in his best friend's head? Was this what he was afraid his family might overhear?

"Harry and you are like cats and dogs." Sherlock tugged nervously on a corner of his bathrobe.

"Because she's an arse, not because she's gay," John huffed.

That was…good. Very good. A shrill giggle escaped Sherlock, and in an instant they were laughing together, like a million times before. So maybe all was not lost. "Then what could be bad?"

"Well, if you finally gave into Jim's courtship…that would worry me. As a friend. He's bad news, Sherlock," his best friend huffed, frowning.

"Jim's what?" the taller teen echoed, puzzled.

"You're a genius, Sherlock, you can't tell me you didn't notice him flirting with you since the very first day of high school!" John exclaimed, throwing his arms up in frustration.

" _Oh_. I thought he was like that with everyone. Are you sure? Anyway, I am pretty sure that he gave up on me," he breathed. Why hadn't John told him? Of course, because he didn't want Sherlock to accept the other teen's wooing.

"Anyway, forget Jim. You were saying you might have a crush?" the blond prompted, leaning towards him.

The boy shook his head. "I'm saying I'm in love. It's different."

"Of course it is," John agreed, smiling, but there was a tightness around his eyes. Even knowing his friend didn't have feelings for Moriarty, he was still tense. Rather an ambiguous clue. After a few seconds of silence, stretching unusually heavy between them, he added, "So? You called me to let me know whom you're in love with, didn't you? I mean, as you pointed out, I always do."

"If you promise not to get angry, whatever happens," Sherlock bartered, suddenly jittery. What if Jim had lied, after all? He couldn't lose John.

"Obviously I won't. Promise, Sherlock. It's not my business, after all," the shorter boy replied. He sighed, almost wistfully. Good news.

"But it really, really is, John," the chemistry-obsessed boy muttered, words almost forming a single, incomprehensible expression.

"What are you saying, Sherlock?" John queried, when the breath wasn't caught in his throat anymore.

"I'm saying I'm in love with you, John Watson… and probably, I've always been," the young genius confessed, and immediately clamped his eyes shut, too terrified to face the reaction, should it be negative.

No sound came from his friend, and Sherlock was already considering if maybe he should ask John to leave. Maybe it was all a terrible error. Maybe Jim had finally managed to destroy him, with just a well-placed barefaced lie. Before he could work himself into a proper panic attack, slightly chapped lips were suddenly against his own.

Sherlock gasped, and his eyes snapped open. This could have been a wish fulfilling tactile hallucination, after all. He needed to _see_. And yes, it was John kissing him like there was no tomorrow, and taking full advantage of his gasp to plunder his mouth. He didn't know such bliss existed.


	3. Chapter 3

After the heated kiss, John actually moved away from his beloved, giving him space. Sherlock instinctively followed him, eager for more contact. "We have to talk about it, Sherlock, love," the blond declared quietly.

"I thought we were done with talking!" the tallest one bit back, with an adorable pout. "You love me, I love you. Knowing this, what else is there to say? Do what you've wanted to. If you longed for me at least as long as I loved you, you must have some ideas."

"Oh, I have plenty," John assured, with a laugh. "But with this we have to be on the same page, Sherlock. I have no intention of pushing you or doing anything that would make you uncomfortable. I think we determined kissing is alright. What else can I do? What do you want from me?"

"Everything, John. And then some. Don't be silly," Sherlock chided, blushing but determined. His eyes shifted downwards afterwards. Was he being too direct? What if John was so… so bloody considerate because he was the one who didn't want everything that his friend had to offer, just… some bits?

Before the boy could work himself into a proper panic attack, the blond croaked, voice rough with something his friend had never heard, "Good. That's…good." And he licked his lips. God, that lip licking had always drawn Sherlock to distraction. He couldn't count the number of experiments that failed because of it.

This time, though, he didn't have to watch and build daydreams out of it. This time John was advancing again towards him – two steps, but never had a tiny gap felt more wrong. The blond kissed him again, eager, passionate, one hand cupping a sharp cheekbone and another pushing the bathrobe off him, revealing blushing skin. Oh God, Sherlock was blushing in places he didn't even know he could blush. It probably looked silly, didn't it? He wasn't a maiden in a stupid book.

"You're… a flower," John murmured reverently, before biting his lips. He was being ridiculous, wasn't he? His best friend/love used to always mock his attempts at poetry when he was after some girl or another. But John couldn't help himself. He was in awe, and it just… sort of slipped out.

The brunet giggled, but for once, it sounded happy, not spiteful at his friend's lack of literary ability. "Then I suppose you're my bee," he replied, looking at blond hair and a white and black striped jumper, "my fuzzy bee. I love bees, John."

"Oh, I know," John assured, feeling rather flattered by the comparison. You couldn't spend hours with one Sherlock Holmes and ignore what he was passionate about – the boy couldn't help raving. "Bzzzzz, bzzzzzzzz," John hummed, leaving butterfly kisses and tenderly nuzzling newly discovered skin.

Sherlock giggled again, but it ended in a groan. "Maybe, I'd love a slightly less fuzzy bee," he croaked. The wool was ticklish, after all.

"Oh, sorry. I got caught up," John agreed, before starting to undress. He'd honestly forgotten that he wasn't as naked as his beloved, so focused he was on the other teen. A second of hesitation, and then Sherlock's hands joined his in the disrobing.

The taller teen's iridescent eyes turned almost entirely black, so dilated his pupils were, eager to drink in the sight. Mostly of it the brunet knew already, of course. And he had quite a good guess of what the rest could be. Still, seeing his love's cock for the first time (John had someboundaries, after all), hard for him - no possibility of doubt there – Sherlock's jaw dropped, with a sharp inhale.

He'd never thought this could happen outside of his own fevered mind…but here John was, kissing his way down the other's body. "Pinch me," the brunet begged.

"What?" the blond groaned, the request not computing. This wasn't in the list of all the things he'd dreamed of doing to his best friend, and everything he could imagine Sherlock wanting from their lovemaking.

"Pinch me," Sherlock repeated, pouting as usual when he was forced to repeat himself. "I need to know this is really happening."

John looked up at him, eyes warm and sweet but a sexy smirk on his lips, and how did he even manage to wear two expressions at once? "I'll do you one better," he promised, before going back up to his lover's collarbone.

Mmmm…he didn't know the blond could be so hot. Sherlock groaned helplessly, and his brain, already on the brink of fizzling out, registered that John was biting and…sucking…and oh God, John was marking him. Bless him for understanding his lover's need for physical evidence. Still, "Slow down," he pleaded, because the mere idea of that was almost enough to make him come by itself, and that would be a pity.

One last suck, and John retreated, looking deep into his love's eyes and asking what was wrong, clearly concerned. Seeing no pain or panic, only a blissed out look, he breathed out in relief. When – eyes shifting to the side, ashamed of what he was going to confess, of how easy he was to wreck – Sherlock assured him that nothing was amiss or uncomfortable, but rather… too pleasant, the blond couldn't help a smug grin.

Sherlock's eyes clouded again, not with pleasure but with embarrassment. If John had missed the first cue, too wrapped up in his love to imagine anyone – much less the other boy himself – could dream of finding fault in him, now he realised his mistake. "You're perfect, love," he murmured adoringly against soft skin. "Absolutely perfect. Amazing. Just the way you are. You know that, right?"

The taller teen shook his head, incredulous. Well, that wouldn't do. Clearly, before going on with the seducing, John needed to set some things straight. "Sherlock – Sher. You know I am unable to lie, don't you?" he queried, holding a sharp cheekbone in his hand.

The boy nuzzled his hand instinctively, and after a second of frowning – he wasn't expected to reason now – nodded minutely, without dislodging it.

"Then you know I am not lying now. You. Are. Perfect. However you react, or don't, if you feel like making any sound, or touching me, or even if you want to come… just do whatever you want, and I'll find you awesome and perfect anyway. Hell, if anyone is likely to mess up it's me. But as long as I can make you happy, I'll consider my mission accomplished," John declared, one hand still petting his beloved's cheek and the other running down his collarbone, on the opposite side to the one he just marked.

"Make love to me," Sherlock pleaded in a sigh, "before I lose it. Please." The sheer fact that he'd managed a full sentence felt like a great accomplishment – how much rational him would sneer at needy him. But John had slowed down and reassured him when he needed it, which only proved further than his love was a perfect human being. (If asked about it, the blond would point out that such detail just made him a decent bloke.)

"As you wish," John agreed, with a muffled giggle at finding himself quoting the Princess Bride, which Harry had forced him to watch too many times to count. But now, he kind of got how that Wesley bloke felt. He just wanted his beloved to be happy.

Nuzzling, kissing and licking the delectable flesh under him, eliciting soft groans and sighs of pleasure, the blond made his way down, and only at the end remembered the major point in the little he knew about sex. "Ermmm….Sherlock…lube?" he mumbled, beating himself up mentally for forgetting that.

Sherlock fumbled blindly, never less inclined to move and possibly dislodge John from his position, but quickly found it and handed it to his love, out of habit dragging his own fingers over his. It used to be one of his secret delights, but he didn't have to content himself with it anymore. They were about to do more. So much more.

"Tell me if you're uncomfortable, or in pain. I don't exactly know what I'm doing, love, and I don't want to hurt you," John warned. Sure, he'd read up on it, and watched a few videos, but porno was not to be taken as instructional – even as a teen, the boy knew that – and it was different from experimenting himself. He didn't have the automatic feedback of his own sensation.

"Do get on with it," the other boy huffed impatiently, opening his legs more. He'd like to lose his virginity before he died of old age. Would his love get the hint? Oh, he just did. Had he himself made that sound? He probably did.

John was slow and careful, despite his lover's nudging. He fumbled – how could he not, his first time? – but judging from the groans and mewls coming from Sherlock, he was doing well. When his worry (no preparation is too much preparation – who said that?) finally lost the war with his beloved's urging and his own desire, he warned Sherlock one last time before breaching him. Both of them moaned loudly.

The blond boy had every intention of making their first time a slow and tender experience, and to his honour, he tried. Given how much longing fuelled the both of them, though, it soon devolved into a more passionate – and quicker – experience than he had envisioned.

Sherlock wasn't complaining, though, if his groans – and the fact that he urged his lover on, and came first with a shout of his beloved's name – were any indications. Then again, John copied him, only seconds behind, and it was the best ever orgasm he'd ever experienced.

The blond moved, wanting to find something to clean them with, but a hand – quick as a snake – caught him by the arm and dragged him back to the mattress. "Where do you think you're going?" his love asked, iridescent eyes wide and a hint of panic in his voice.

"Only to get something to clean up a bit," he murmured, reassuringly.

"Don't need to. I… like it. The evidence," the curl-haired boy admitted, blushing.

"You won't say that later," John countered, trying to be reasonable.

"I will," Sherlock insisted, stubborn, already a hint of a pout forming on delectable lips.

"Fine, your way," the blond gave in, smiling, "just don't complain to me later. What do you want? Nap?"

His beloved nodded, and snuggled him until he was the little spoon to John's possessive embrace. It might seem counterintuitive, given their heights, but the other was very much not protesting. And maybe there was a point, to not facing him, because the brunet queried, voice almost distant, "John?... Are we boyfriends now?"

"I would hope so!" John blurted out, hugging him with more strength. "I love you, you love me… I don't see what's stopping us."

"No more girls then?" Sherlock inquired, and if he didn't sound so insecure, his boyfriend would have smiled at the appearance of jealous!Sherlock. Who would imagine that someone so amazing could be jealous of him?

"No, no more girls. Forever," the blond sworn, eager enough that his love would hopefully believe him.

The taller boy relaxed in his hold, but he had a last question, "And… can we do that again when we wake up?"

John couldn't help it, He laughed in happiness. "We can do whatever you want, love. Absolutely anything."

"…Good," Sherlock declared. Less than a minute later, he was asleep in John's arms.


End file.
